


my home is where my hat is hung

by notquiteaghost



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 5 times +1, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - University, M/M, because it's e/r of course it's gonna take them forever, this spans like 4 years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notquiteaghost/pseuds/notquiteaghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Grantaire told Enjolras he loved him, plus one time Enjolras returned the favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my home is where my hat is hung

**Author's Note:**

> they're at uni in london, cuz them being english makes no more sense than them being american, so i can make them english if i damn well want. because of this, i haven't tried to de-british myself. just a forewarning.
> 
> title's from 'the river, the woods' by astronautalis. unbetaed; please point out any mistakes.

**1.**  
"I love you."

"You're drunk."

Grantaire frowns at Enjolras. "So?" He says, petulant. "I love you when I'm drunk 'nd when I'm sober."

"You're only saying it because you're drunk." Enjolras says, sighing.

"But it's s'ill true." Grantaire points out, triumphant.

Enjolras sighs again.

He's trying to manoeuvre Grantaire into bed. At least, that's what Grantaire thinks he's trying to do. He's not sure; it's only four in the afternoon, he's resisting on principle.

And, yes, he's aware he's so drunk he can't really stand and has started to seriously lose control over what comes out of his mouth and it's only four in the afternoon. It was two when he started drinking. He's not had a very good week.

"Why do you have to be so difficult?" Enjolras says.

Grantaire frowns again. "'Cuz it's wha' I do."

"That's a shitty answer, R."

"You're a shi'y answer."

"And you're so drunk you can hardly stand, and you won't even tell me why. You're probably not even going to remember this tomorrow." Enjolras sighs, running a hand through his hair and staring at some point in the distance that isn't Grantaire. And now Grantaire feels shitty, because Enjolras has shit going on too, and it isn't fair for Grantaire to abuse his friendship like this. He's making Enjolras sad. He hates it when that happens. 

"Sorry." Grantaire mumbles.

Somehow, Enjolras managed to get him into bed without him noticing. It's Enjolras' bed, he's pretty sure. It's definitely not his own. Grantaire hasn't been back to his own house in three days. He's gonna have to at some point - all of his worldly possessions are still there - but he should probably sober up first.

"Sleep." Enjolras says. Grantaire's going to pretend his tone was fond, not frustrated. "We're talking when you wake up, but you need to sleep this off first, okay?"

"S'ill love you." Grantaire mumbles, mostly into his pillow, and then he's closing his eyes and listening to the swish of Enjolras pulling the door shut and everything fades away for a while.

He dreams of rollercoaster rides, vaulting the barricades in the tube stations and playing poker with Enjolras and betting his heart and Enjolras winning. He doesn't remember any of it, neither the dream or the drunken conversation, when he wakes up.

 

 **2.**  
It's three in the morning, and Grantaire is out of pens.

Literally. Every single pen in his and Courfeyrac's flat (and believe him, he's found them all) is either out of ink, in pieces, or out of ink and in pieces. This isn't usually a big deal; biros are cheap as anything, he can grab another ten pack on his way to class.

But, usually, Grantaire isn't quite this, well, manic. He needs to get this drawing finished, and it needs to be in ink, and he can't sleep until he's done. If he sleeps, he'll forget what the drawing was meant to be of.

Which is probably his fault, for coming up with such a complicated concept at one in the morning.

Oh well.

So, yeah. He's out of pens, and it's three AM. And, after the last time, he's been forbidden from leaving his flat alone after midnight. So he's calling Enjolras.

Not because Enjolras is the most likely to be awake (that's Eponine), or because he's the most likely to not care when he's woken up by Grantaire's insanity at 3.38AM (that's Bahorel), or because he's the most likely to be willing to help (that's Jehan). It's because he's Enjolras, and they've been friends for going on a decade now, and this isn't even the weirdest thing Grantaire's called him about, or the latest (that would be when he was stranded in Trafalgar at 5AM; the trip to draw Napoleon that's the reason for his curfew).

"What?"

Enjolras sounds annoyed, but not half-asleep. Meaning he was awake anyway. Meaning he's being just as bad as Grantaire, staying up writing that stupid essay when they both promised to try for eight hours sleep.

"Have you got any biros?" Grantaire asks.

There's a pause, probably as Enjolras blinks at the ceiling in bewilderment. "R, it's three in the morning. What the fuck?"

"I need biros." Grantaire says. "I'm gonna die if I can't get any, E. I'm actually gonna die."

Enjolras sighs, that one particular 'Jesus Christ why am I friends with you' sigh that Grantaire hears an awful lot of, but he says, "Alright, okay, you can come raid my pen collection, but you're going to bed by five and you're making me breakfast tomorrow. Clear?"

"Crystal." Grantaire replies, beaming. He's already standing up and groping around for his shoes. It's only a five minute walk to Enjolras' maisonette, and he can make it in two if he hurries. "Have I mentioned that I loved you?"

"A couple of times, yes." Enjolras sounds put-upon, but Grantaire can tell he's smiling.

"Because I really do." Grantaire says, as he gives up on finding his other trainer and pulls on a boot instead. His shoes can match when it's not three in the morning. "I love you so fucking much, you are an angel from Heaven, you are a gift from God, you-"

"Alright, alright," Enjolras cuts in. He's not doing a very good job of muffling his laughter, "Just get over here already."

"I'm leaving now." Grantaire assures him, but he's talking to no one, because that bastard just hung up on him.

Oh well. He grabs his keys from the table, pulls a hat on and mostly trips out the door. He's got pens now. The world can catch fire and he wouldn't even complain that loudly, because he's got pens and Enjolras and everything's just fine.

 

 **3.**  
"Before anything else," Grantaire starts, "I would just like to remind you that I love you with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns, and would do absolutely anything for you, including jump in front of bullets, spend the rest of my life in prison and walk four miles in the snow to buy that ridiculous breakfast cereal you like so much."

Enjolras groans. "What did you do?"

They're in the ABC. Specifically, Enjolras is sitting in one of the armchairs in the corner (the best seats in the cafe), surrounded by books and bits of paper and highlighters, his computer open on his lab, and Grantaire is standing in front of him, trying not to scuff his foot into the carpet.

"Also, it was an accident. A complete accident. If it was anyone's fault, it was Courf's, he was the one who thought bleach would help-" Enjolras holds up a hand, so Grantaire stops, swallows, and starts again. "Paint. That, er, really expensive paint that doesn't come out even if you sacrifice your soul to Satan. On your sofa. And your carpet. And one or two of your shirts. And the kitchen counter." There's a pause, during which Enjolras' expression darkens in a way that strikes terror into even the bravest of men, and Grantaire, who is truly a coward at heart, gives into the temptation to kick at the carpet and starts planning his escape. "I really am sorry. So fucking sorry, honest. And I love you. And I'll pay for a new everything, if you want me to. And I'll bake you cookies."

"The shirts don't matter." Enjolras says, his expression softening slightly. "The kitchen's a lost cause anyway. I can put something over the carpet. But you're paying for the sofa to be professionally cleaned, and you're banned from ever being alone in my flat with Courfeyrac again, and you owe me big time."

There's this edge to his tone, a kind of 'you better be grateful I'm letting you live' vibe that Grantaire's maybe a little too familiar with. "I love you, I love you, I love you. I'm gonna go call a sofa cleaner right now, I promise."

"No, you're going to go to class right now." Enjolras looks pointedly at the clock on the wall that proudly claims it's 11.46, because yes, Grantaire did manage to fuck Enjolras over before noon. And, yes, he has fourteen minutes to get to his next lecture, and he hasn't eaten, and he still needs to shower. "And, after class, you're going to find the best upholstery cleaner in all of London. But only after class, because, believe it or not, getting your degree is important."

"Alright, alright, no need to lecture." Grantaire says, rolling his eyes and taking the cup of coffee Enjolras holds out. "I'll be round later, yeah?"

"Yeah." Enjolras says, and Grantaire turns to go. He gets almost all the way to the door before Enjolras calls, "And, for Christ's sake, don't sleep through your lecture again!", which is something of an achievement.

By way of reply, he throws Enjolras the bird over his shoulder and leaves the cafe.

 

 **4.**  
Grantaire is pretty sure he hasn't been outside in three whole days.

He's not sure he's eaten, either. He's definitely been drinking coffee, though, both because he's surrounded by empty mugs and because he's not sure he'd still be alive otherwise.

This is, generally, what happens when Courfeyrac is out of town and there's no one to police his sleeping or eating habits. He doesn't do well on his own. It's something he's come to accept about himself.

So, yeah. Three days of what is, essentially, a painting binge, judging by the smudges on his hands and his clothes and his face, and the floor and the walls and Jesus Christ how did he get paint on the _ceiling_ \- 

And now Enjolras has appeared in front of him, frowning worriedly. Grantaire waves. Enjolras sighs and pulls Grantaire to his feet, even though Grantaire's probably going to get paint all over his nice clothes.

"R, when was the last time you slept? Or ate?" Enjolras asks.

Grantaire thinks. "I slept last night? For, I don't know, a couple of hours. And, um, I can't remember eating, so I probably haven't done it in a while?"

Enjolras gives him a look. Grantaire wilts slightly.

"I brought food." Enjolras says. "And more paint and canvases, and some of Eponine's weird hazelnut and chocolate coffee stuff that you like so much. And I fed Light, though I'm pretty sure you'd been doing that anyway, judging by how he wasn't actually that pleased to see me."

"You're not a cat person. He can sense it." Grantaire tells him, as he takes the offered cup of coffee and toasted sandwich that looks suspiciously like one of Eponine's vegan BLT masterpieces. "Have I mentioned recently that I love you? Because holy fuck do I love you."

"It might have come up, once or twice." Enjolras says, aiming for nonchalance but mostly hitting amusement. "What are you working on?"

"Um, it's kinda hard to explain?" Grantaire says, through a mouthful of sandwich. Definitely one of Ep's. Fucking heaven between two slices of bread, seriously. "I was thinking about reincarnation, and the personification of capital cities, and, like, the idea that very important events leave impressions on the places they happened in."

"So you've got the ghost of past cities, haunting the new cities?" Enjolras guesses, and, as usual, his translation from Grantairese to English is dead on.

Grantaire nods, swallows another bite of sandwich, and says, "That's one half of the paintings, yeah. The other half's an interweaving series, half-based around the idea that certain key figures throughout history are the same, like, base group of people, reincarnated ad infinitum. Like, you know the basic character archetypes? Hero, villain, adventurer, coward, all those?"

"So, a Christian crusader, a French revolutionary, and an American WWII private would all be a hero?" Enjolras summaries, and Grantaire nods again, grinning. He loves talking about his ideas; it's almost as much fun as realising them onto canvas.

"Exactly! And, like, I tried to show that through, um, what are basically colour-coded mannequins? Faceless, featureless characters, shown for who they're meant to be via background and costume. I don't know, I might be making it sound really crap."

"It sounds amazing, R." Enjolras assures him.

Grantaire beams. "I love you. This sandwich is amazing and you are amazing and I love you, I love you so much, can I paint you? I really want to paint you. It's been ages since you've modelled for me."

Raising an eyebrow, Enjolras says, "According to Courfeyrac, I'm the subject of around 40% of your work."

That's actually Courf downgrading things, because if he told Enjolras the real figure (ranging from 60 to 85%, depending on Grantaire's mood) then Grantaire would have to flay him alive, and that'd be unfortunate for everyone involved.

"Yeah, but that's from memory." Grantaire points out. "And, okay, I probably have you completely memorised at this point, but it's different. It's like writing an essay on source material you know by heart and source material you have directly in front of you."

"Alright, alright, I get it." Enjolras says, rolling his eyes. "Living room?"

"Living room." Grantaire agrees, grabbing his paintbrushes on the way out of his studio (if you can call it that. It's more of a guest bedroom that houses art more than it does actual people).

It's another four hours before Enjolras leaves. Grantaire gets two paintings done, one a very naturalistic portrait of Enjolras curled up in the corner of the sofa with a book, and the other a far more abstract (and a fair bit bigger) thing depicting the way Enjolras commands the attention of a room without meaning to, through use of light and colour and Grantaire doesn't know if anyone else is going to get the message (apart from Courfeyrac and Combeferre, because he's damned if he can hide a single thing from either of them), but he's proud of it all the same.

(He shows Enjolras the first, but not the second. He's not stupid.)

 

5.  
Enjolras is asleep.

Grantaire isn't.

This, in of itself, isn't really noteworthy - Grantaire and Combeferre have always been the insomniacs. Courfeyrac would sleep until noon every day if he could, and Enjolras treats sleeping about the same as he treats eating; necessary but still enjoyable.

On this particular occasion, Enjolras is asleep on Grantaire and Courfeyrac's sofa, sprawled out on his back as if that's in any way comfortable. He's been asleep for a couple of hours now. They were watching Iron Man, but it finished almost an hour ago. Courfeyrac and Combeferre have both gone to bed, Combeferre actually sleeping in the guest room for once, and Light is led across the back of the sofa, in his second favourite spot in the flat.

And Grantaire is still here, cross-legged on the armchair, computed balanced on his lap, staring at Enjolras and feeling ever-so-slightly creepy.

Because there's staring at a man when he's looking somewhere else, and there's staring at a man when he's sleeping. Grantaire is pretty sure he's crossing some kind of line here. 

"...Christ, I love you." He mutters, and that doesn't help him feel any less creepy, but it does give him an outlet. Outlets are good. "I really fucking do, E. You're so easy to love, and you don't even know it. Stupid bugger."

Enjolras doesn't do anything, because he's asleep, because Grantaire has officially gone off the deep end. 

He turns his attention back to his laptop screen, but he can't remember what he was doing. He's got two drawing programmes, three art blogs and a game of Minesweeper open. He bookmarks the blogs, saves the half-finished doodles and purposefully loses the game, then shuts down the computer. 

He sets it on the floor, then looks at Enjolras again. 

Enjolras, who is every positive adjective Grantaire can think of and then some. Enjolras, who is also a hefty dose of negative adjectives. Enjolras, who Grantaire has been in love with almost as long as they've known each other. Enjolras, who is completely oblivious to everything that isn't human rights or a university lecture.

Enjolras, who is asleep. Who Grantaire is staring at, and who is asleep.

Grantaire sighs and stands up. He obviously needs to sleep, before he does something really, really stupid. 

He drops a kiss into Enjolras' hair and runs a finger lightly down Light's back as he passes, because he's allowed to do one stupid thing if no one else is around to comment on it. And then he retreats into his own room, with his empty bed and his closed door and his distance from the living room.

He doesn't sleep well, but when does he ever sleep well? It's fine, it's all fine, because he's been doing it for years, and he's way past used to it at this point. It's all fine.

 

+1  
Enjolras wakes up on Grantaire and Courfeyrac's sofa to the smell of coffee and pancakes and the sound of laughter.

Combeferre is sitting on what is not-so-officially Grantaire's armchair, Light curled in a ball on his lap, cradling a cup of the aforementioned coffee and staring at Enjolras with an undecipherable look on his face. 

When Enjolras raises a curious eyebrow, Combeferre merely smiles. "Morning." He says. "Grantaire is making pancakes, as I suspect you'll have already guessed."

"Smells good." Enjolras agrees, standing up and stretching. Grantaire and Courfeyrac's sofa provides a better night's sleep than a fair number of bed's he's slept on, so he's not exactly worse for wear. He's definitely feeling the after-effects of last night's sugar binge, however.

He's twenty-one, and he's still getting sugar hangovers. Christ but does that say a lot.

And, speaking of last night, he has the strangest memory. He's almost sure it's a dream, because it's definitely not something likely to happen in reality.

The thing is, he's half-convinced Grantaire, after Courf and 'Ferre were both in bed, had muttered something about loving Enjolras. As in, being in love with Enjolras. But he had to have been dreaming, because that's absurd. Because he's the one who kisses Grantaire's forehead when he's sure he's fast asleep, not the other way around. 

Shaking his head, as if that's gonna do anything to help, Enjolras walks into the kitchen.

Sure enough, Grantaire is making pancakes. He and Courfeyrac both look up when Enjolras walks in, but where Courf grins at him and holds out a mug of still-steaming coffee, Grantaire ducks his head before he can meet Enjolras' eyes and it almost looks like he's blushing. 

...Huh. 

"Morning." Enjolras says to the both of them. "How long have you been up?"

"I've been awake for ten minutes, if that. R and 'Ferre got up an hour or so ago." Courfeyrac informs him, then inclines his head questioningly at Grantaire, who's currently got his back to them. Enjolras shrugs and runs a hand through his hair. Somehow, this makes Courfeyrac's eyes widen in realisation, and he adds, "That reminds me, I need to talk to 'Ferre about the budget for Halloween at the caf," before disappearing into the living room. 

Enjolras hopes he doesn't think he's subtle. 

"R?" Enjolras asks, after a minute or two of companionable silence. 

Grantaire puts down the half-made batter mix and turns to face him. He looks almost worried. "What?"

"I..." Enjolras hesitates. If he's wrong about this, he's going to screw everything up. But he's pretty sure he's right. He swallows, then says, "Did you say something, last night?"

Vague. Vague is good. 

"You were asleep." Grantaire protests. That's not a denial, which is even better. "You- I thought you were asleep. Fuck, I'm so sorry, I thought you-"

"Don't apologise." Enjolras interrupts. "Just. Repeat what you said?" 'So I can be sure I wasn't dreaming', he doesn't add.

Grantaire swallows and looks at the floor. "Christ, I love you." He repeats in a monotone. "I really fucking do, E. You're so easy to love, and you don't even know it."

"That's what I thought you said." Enjolras says. Grantaire must hear something in his voice, because he looks up, his eyes wide and surprised and, fuck, hopeful. "Why didn't you say anything earlier?"

"I did." Grantaire points out. "I've been telling you I love you since year 8, E."

"Yeah, but you've also been telling Courf and 'Ferre." Enjolras counters. "How was I supposed to be able to tell the difference?"

"I didn't want you to, that was the point." Grantaire says, and that's definitely a blush this time. "You've never dated anyone. How was I supposed to know you'd be interesting?"

"I'm telling you now." Enjolras replies. There's a beat when it feels like neither of them breathe, and then Grantaire is pushing Enjolras back against the kitchen counter and slotting their mouths together.

Grantaire tastes like pancakes, lemon juice and coffee, but there's a hint of something else underneath, something purely Grantaire. Enjolras chases it, mapping Grantaire's mouth as thoroughly as he can before pulling back to breathe and biting gently at Grantaire's lower lip just to hear him groan.

"...Fuck." Grantaire whispers. "Holy fucking hell, you're good at that."

"You're not half-bad yourself." Enjolras teases, then leans back in for another kiss, because he hasn't quite put his finger on what Grantaire tastes like yet, and so further investigation is obviously required. 

Whatever it is, it's bloody addicting. A few minutes, and Enjolras is already hooked.

They break apart for good when Courfeyrac walks back into the kitchen and lets out a cheer. Grantaire throws a spoon at him. Combeferre appears a moment later and does a celebratory dance; Enjolras throws a fork.

"Alright, alright, no need for that." Combeferre says, grinning. "We're happy for you, is that so wrong?"

"Took you long enough." Courfeyrac adds. "We were worried we were gonna have to stage some kind of intervention. Lock you both in a cupboard and not let you out until you'd kissed."

This time, they throw themselves, lunging across the kitchen and promising pain. Courfeyrac and Combeferre wisely don't stay put, and Enjolras and Grantaire give chase in a ridiculous bout of play-fighting that accumulates in Courf and 'Ferre on the floor, Enjolras and R sitting on them until they cry uncle.

It's a good way to start the day, all in all. Especially considering, when they all stand up and Enjolras, faced with Grantaire's bed-head and laughter-filled eyes, is almost blind-sided by a need to kiss the stupid bugger, he's allowed to follow through. He's allowed to push Grantaire down onto the sofa, twist his fingers through Grantaire's stupid hair and lick his way into Grantaire's mouth. In fact, judging by Grantaire's reaction, Enjolras would go as far to say it's encouraged.

He pulls back, just for a second, when something occurs to him.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, and Enjolras grins at him and whispers, "I love you too, you know." And then Grantaire's grinning too, and kissing him hard enough to bruise, and it really doesn't get much better than this.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) grantaire and courfeyrac have a black cat, called light. it's short for 'lightbringer', as in lucifer, because what else do you name cats after but the devil?  
> 2) courfeyrac and eponine run a vegan cafe (the ABC).  
> 3) this is nowhere near the end of this 'verse. like, at all. i have no idea how quickly i'll write it all, but i have so much planned.


End file.
